Eleven Pipers Piping

11. On the Eleventh Day of Christmas… Eleven Pipers Piping, by Hesadevil

Christmas Eve, 24th December 2004

“Where are we?” Spike whirled round through a full 360, his coat billowing behind him in the cold breeze. “Bugger it, Blue. What’re we doin’ back here?” he growled, recognising the alleyway behind the Hyperion.

Illyria didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her hand against the rear door of the hotel and concentrated. “Angel, he has been here.”

“State the bleedin’ obvious, why don’t you? Seem to remember a dragon and the host of Mordor bein’ here as well.”

“No!” Illyria raised her eyes to the skyline. “He has been here again. There is something further which he will show me.”

“’Bout Christmas? Thought we’d just about got it covered.”

Illyria tilted her head. “There is something missing.”

Spike snorted and held up his hand. “Don’t think so. Food, drink, parties, promises, presents.” He counted off each digit in turn.

Illyria continued to stare at him, unblinking.

Spike thought for a moment. “Nope,” he said, finally, “can’t think of anything.” He looked up as a scrap of something red floated down from the rooftop. It was the remains of a Christmas banner bearing the letters S A N in white against a background of holly leaves. “Unless you… Did we do Santa Claus?” he asked, frowning.

“Santa Claus?”

“Yeah, you know. Big bloke. Built like a Troll. Red suit. Drives a sleigh.”

Illyria flicked her head, in a bird-like shake of denial.

“Delivers presents to the kids?” Spike paused. “Or eats ‘em, depends which version you’ve heard… Anyway, ‘s too late. We’ve missed him. He only works Christmas Eve. Lucky bugger...” Spike trailed off as he saw Illyria close her eyes and take a deep breath. He felt himself lifted into the air on a wave of power.

“Wait. Illyria!” he shouted in alarm.

The lights of Los Angeles rushed away beneath his feet and the sky swirled through a maelstrom of colour and sound. Spike pulled his coat in tight and wrapped his arms around himself to prevent it being ripped off by the buffeting waves surging around them. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The sky was a boiling sea of warring elements as Illyria fought for control of time and space. Energy crackled around them, splitting clouds into hailstorms and punching through barriers as daybreak gave way to nightfall and nightfall disappeared into a new dawn. Spike began to wonder if they would ever break through to where Illyria was taking them or if they were doomed to remain trapped in a time-loop of endless sunsets and sunrises.

At last the turmoil eased and Spike opened his eyes. He wished he hadn’t. Below him, he could see the streets of Los Angeles approaching rapidly. He glimpsed a golden star atop a huge Christmas tree, which glittered with thousands of lights, and tens of thousands of ornaments. As Illyria continued their turbulent descent, snow began falling on the white Californian fir marking the location of The Grove shopping mall. Spike braced himself for a rough landing and closed his eyes again against the sight of the pavement rushing upwards to meet him.

“Bloody Hell, Tinkerbell, another trip like that and I’m jumping ship.” His attempt at a break-fall had resulted in one crumpled, annoyed vampire coming to rest against a fire hydrant bearing the mark of M. Greenberg & Sons. “Ugh! I have to stop drinking on an empty stomach.”

Illyria ignored his complaint and strode off rapidly, heading towards bright lights of the shopping streets of Beverley Boulevard, and the crowds.

“Hey! Wait up!” Spike picked himself up and yelled after her. Grumbling softly to himself, he sprinted after her.

Closer to the shops, the air was filled with piped music and, as they neared Macy’s department store, Spike could clearly hear the opening bars of Frosty the Snowman. He groaned. “Oh, no. No, no, no. We are not repeating anything, Illyria.” he called.

Illyria stopped suddenly in front of a window display and held up her hand as Spike squealed to a halt behind her. “Silence, vampire,” she commanded, “and explain.”

“Can’t do the second if I do the first,” Spike protested. “Which is it to be, Highness?” he asked smirking at her.

Illyria considered for a second. “Your complaint is reasonable,” she replied. “The first is waived. Continue to the second.”

Spike looked at the scene in front of them where a group of small children had gathered in front of the animated window display. They were gazing, open mouthed at the moving figures, delight shining in their eyes and lighting their faces. Older children chatted excitedly and pointed at characters, squealing with pleasure at the antics of their favourites enacting scenes that never appeared in the film. Behind them, parents watched their offspring; some took photographs, holding the cameras up for their families to see the images they’d captured.

Spike grimaced. “Parents bring their kids out to see the displays. ‘S part of the whole ShowTime gig that’s Christmas nowadays. Makes me want to puke. In a couple of hours, all this proud Mom and Dad stuff’ll be gone and the kids’ll be tearing one another’s eyes out.”

“And that?” Illyria gestured towards a young man who had taken his son by the hand and was leading him towards the doorway beside which a sign read ‘This way to Santa’s House’.”

“What is this? Miracle on 34th Street meets Groundhog Day?” grumbled Spike. “Santa Claus isn’t real. It’s a myth, a story to keep the kids on the straight and narrow all year.” He scanned the crowds. “Besides, we’re never gonna find Angel here, Bluebird, let’s go back. I’m getting mighty peckish.”

“All myths have their roots in reality,” Illyria countered. “How does this one work?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Kid behaves himself, Santa gives him what he wants for Christmas. Kid misbehaves, he doesn’t get anything but coal. That’s all.” Spike tilted his head and looked towards the loudspeakers, which were belting out another Christmas ‘classic’.

#You better watch out
You better not cry,
You better not pout I’m tellin' you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town,
He's making a list checkin it twice,
He's gonna find out whose naughty or nice,
Santa Claus is coming to town.#

“Second thoughts, there might be a bit more to it than that,” Spike said after a moment’s reflection. “I remember chattin’ with Anya ‘bout the good old days when she was a vengeance demon. Said she missed the old Santa, the one with the Dark Helper. Seems it was his job to drag all the naughties off while Santa gave sugar and spice to the nice folk. Not just kids, either.” Spike chuckled. “She said Santa dropped the dark assistant when he sold out to Coca Cola sometime in the 30s.”

“That is not explaining,” said Illyria coldly. “It is confusing. You name people I do not know and speak of a time when I lay at my rest within the Deeper Well.”

“Yeah, well, like I said a way back, I’m no expert. And I seem to recall you askin’ me to enlighten you through my experiences. So, if you don’t follow what I’m gettin’ at, that’s too bad.” Spike grinned at her.

She stiffened suddenly and headed towards the doorway. “Angel has passed this way.”

Spike sighed and started to follow her into the store. Before he could do so, the door opened again and a young man dressed in an elf’s costume came out.

“You sure there’s nothing wrong?” the youth called over his shoulder.

Behind him, a familiar figure emerged from the doorway. “Why do you always think that when I drop in on you?”

Spike raised his eyebrows in surprise. Angel.

“Not quite who I had in mind when I described Santa,” Spike said to Illyria who had followed the pair out of the store.

Angel fell into step beside the young man, who eyed him with amusement.

“I’m having a déjà vu moment,” the boy said, smiling.

“Déjà vu? Oh, you mean last time we went for coffee…” Angel paused and his frown gave way to a lopsided grin.

Illyria urged Spike to join her, following Angel and the boy through the crowds, weaving their way between groups of shoppers. Behind them, a figure, dressed in the multi-coloured costume of the Pied Piper, stepped out of the shadows. He took out a sheet of paper from his tunic and checked its contents, then looked closely at Angel and the boy, nodded his head, and followed them.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” the young man said as he resumed the conversation with Angel. “And in one piece by the looks of things.”

Angel shrugged. “Guess so.”

“So you won, huh?”

Spike raised an eyebrow at Illyria. “Who’s the kid?

“You do not remember him?” Illyria shifted her attention to Spike.

“Should I?” Spike asked, his brow creasing as he searched his memory.

Illyria slowed time with a flick of her wrist. All motion on the street ceased. Spike could no longer hear the piped music, or the sounds of traffic. “The youth who Angel brought into the training room, the day I adopted you as my pet.”

“Hey! First off, we’ve talked about this. You agreed. I’m nobody’s pet,” Spike argued. “And second. Yeah, I do remember. The case Wes took on.” Spike scrutinised the young man’s face. “That’s the lad. Irish name – Connor or some such.”

Illyria studied both Angel and Connor, concentrating on the emotions running between them, perceiving them as waves of light. “This is who Angel has been searching for,” she announced.

Spike gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

“I do not know,” replied Illyria, resuming time once more. “I sense something between them. Something I have encountered before on this journey through the Days of Christmas. It is not dissimilar to what I sense between you and Angel.”

“What? Blinding hatred?”

Connor and Angel stopped in front of the window displays and watched the remaining groups of children and their parents.

“I loved coming here when I was a kid. Dad used to bring me to get me out from under Mom’s feet.” Connor grinned up at Angel. “And to stop me wrecking the house looking for presents.”

Angel gave a small smile. “My Da’ would take me down to the beach to play hurley barefoot on the sand,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yeah?” asked the youth curiously. “You never told me about when you were a kid. What else did you do?”

Angel watched the last of the children entering the door to Santa’s house, and glanced at the piper who had placed his cap on the pavement and was playing The Twelve Days of Christmas on his flute. “I’d be sent out to pay the Waits for their carols,” he said. “And I’d gather the holly and ivy for the decorations. Da’ would carve out a turnip for the large red candle, and when Kathy was still a baby, I’d be the one to help light it on Christmas Eve. My Da’ and I would hold the lighted taper together and the candle would burn throughout the night; lighting the way for the Holy Family.” Angel gazed at Connor. “I never got to do any of that stuff with my own son.”

Spike snorted. “Think the Big Poof’s lost it. ‘S that dragon’s blood that did for him - poisoned his brain.”

Connor looked at his watch. “Better go for that coffee,” he said. “I’m due back in an hour.” He led the way into a dimly lit side street. “Short cut,” he explained. “There’s a quiet place not far from here.”

Connor was cut off by the appearance of the piper in front of them and another, darker figure, materialising out of the air beside him. The piper placed his flute to his lips and began playing. As he did so, his companion came into focus; a black demon dressed in the fitted tunic and hose of a Medieval Moor; carrying a birch switch in one hand and a scimitar in the other.

“Co-workers?” asked Angel.

Connor shook his head and Angel immediately stepped between him and the demon.

“Can’t be….” Spike shook his head in disbelief. “He was given the old heave ho ages ago.”

“Angel does not ask a reasonable question?” asked Illyria. She examined the piper and the demon, her eyes darting from them to Connor and back again. “Yet they wear similar attire.”

“Yeah,” Spike drawled. “’Cept the boy’s is just a costume. Whereas these other two – they’re the real thing. That’s the Dark Helper.” Spike gestured at the demon.

Illyria opened her mouth to ask another question but closed it again and watched with interest as the demon launched his attack.

He lunged at Angel; the scimitar slicing through the air as Angel side-stepped gracefully. The demon’s momentum carried him forward towards Connor instead, who grasped him by the arm and flipped him over arm onto the pavement. Having dropped the scimitar in his fall, the demon sprang to his feet, whirling the switch above his head. The birch cracked like a whip as he flicked it, inches from Connor’s ear.
“The piper has piped your name,” the demon hissed. “Prepare to atone.”

He cracked the switch again with a cry and this time, it struck Connor across the cheek. The gash that opened began to bleed copiously, the blood running in tracks down his neck and staining the green fabric of his tunic. He stood his ground and the demon raised the switch to strike a second time, but before he could Angel had caught his hand and wrenched the birch from his grasp.

“The piper got it wrong,” Angel snarled. “Any atoning to be done, it’s me you want.”

The piper lowered his flute and the demon vanished, fading into the night air as quickly as it had materialised earlier.

“Black Peter was only doing his job,” the piper said quietly. “Santa’s list is never wrong. Those who have done good, Santa rewards; those who have done bad, the Dark Helper punishes. Both your names are on the list; Angel, the vampire; Connor, his son.” He raised his flute and began playing once more summoning the demon from the dimension into which it had disappeared.

Angel grasped the piper by the throat and hoisted him into the air. The magus dropped his flute and struggled for breath, clutching at Angel’s hands in a feeble attempt to release them.

“Son?” Spike croaked in surprise. “Connor is Angel’s son? He never told me that! Who… ? How… ?” He stopped, unable to process the notion of a vampire fathering a child.

“Get out of my sight,” Angel growled, releasing the piper. “And if you or any of Santa’s other little helpers ever threaten me or my family again…” he shifted into game face, “you will have Angelus to deal with.”

The piper fled, leaving Angel and Connor alone in the street. As he reached the junction with the main street, the piper stopped and turned. “You haven’t escaped,” he shouted. “Black Peter is waiting for my summons!”

Illyria moved closer to observe their interaction, as Angel led Connor to a streetlight and examined his wound.

“It’s healing already,” he said, rubbing his thumb along Connor’s jawline.

Connor grinned. “Some of the things I got from you come in handy,” he admitted.

“You sayin’ there are other things that aren’t?” Angel asked.

“I don’t sing too good,” Connor replied.

Angel chuckled softly. “You still want that coffee?”

Connor watched the retreating piper. “Could do with an explanation,” he said, indicating the discarded flute.

Angel picked the instrument up and examined it. “Where do I begin?” he asked, frowning.

“The list?” said Connor as they moved off together. “Is that like some kind of hit list? Has Wolfram and Hart put out a contract on us?”

“No. Well, yes they have, but that’s not what this is,” replied Angel.

He looked at the pipe and brought it down across his knee, snapping it in two. As it broke, there was a flash, accompanied by a distant wail of pain and anger.

“Guess that’s the end of the Dark Helper,” said Angel. He gestured at Connor’s costume. “Santa’s helpers weren’t always elves.” He paused, noting Connor’s incredulous look.

“You’re not tellin’ me Santa’s real?” Connor laughed.

“As real as vampires and demons,” replied Angel. “And he has his hit-list – like in the song the store was playing earlier.”

“And that Black Peter guy was his hit man,” concluded Connor.

Angel beamed. “Smart boy.” He stared fondly at his son. “Connor, I never got to do any of…” He paused, struggling to find the words to express what he was feeling. “Never got to be there for you when you were growing up, to show you things… like a father should. But you showed me.”

Connor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I love you Connor,” Angel continued. “You made me feel… human. Only two people…” Angel stopped, struggling for control of his feelings. “Only you and Buffy ever made me feel human again.”

“Who’s Buffy?” asked Connor as they entered the coffee shop.

Illyria returned to Spike’s side. He was leaning against the wall, staring into space, his jaw working furiously as he battled with his emotions.

“They are family,” Illyria said, finally. “They feel love for one another. Just as I saw between you and your mother.”

Spike snorted. “Love,” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t he tell me? All that guff in Rome about moving on. Bollocks! He had his own ready made family just waiting to sweep him into the bosom.” Spike straightened his back and pushed off from the wall, the anger returning once more. “Couldn’t bear to let me have a clear crack at her myself. That’s what it was.” He strode down the street towards the shop.

“This is jealousy,” Illyria said, falling into step beside him.

“Damn right it is! Bastard thought he’d have his cake and eat it. Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Your revenge will wait until we have completed our journey.” Illyria blocked Spike’s path.

“Get out of my way, Illyria,” Spike snarled. “This is between me and Angel… And Buffy.”

“You would defy me again, over some woman, a mere mortal who is as dirt beneath my feet?” Illyria didn’t move.

“For this woman, I’d defy a whole bleedin’ pantheon of gods. Let one kick the snot out of me too. An’ I’d go to Hell and back; bloody well have been, one way or another.” Spike collected himself, preparing for whatever Illyria had in mind to show him the error of his ways. “Besides, this isn’t about her, not really,” he said when it became clear that Illyria wasn’t making a move to attack him. “It’s about him. Love’s meant to be about truth and trust, not keeping things from people. Why didn’t he tell her? Why didn’t he tell anyone?”

Illyria didn’t answer.

“So he gets everything he wants – again. And I get chuff all,” Spike said bitterly.

Illyria tilted her head questioningly.

“Christmas – is not a good time to be alone,” Spike explained, pacing in front of the coffee shop. “Fred said it, back there. Anyone who enjoys Christmas, ‘s ‘cos they’re with people they love.” He paused, eyeing the fairy lights shedding a soft glow on the faces of Angel and Connor, facing one another across a small table inside the shop. “And there he is, Mr Cake and Eat it.” Spike gestured at father and son.

Illyria studied Spike’s face. “This is envy then.”

Spike stopped pacing. “No,” he sighed, deflating. “Not envy. More – lost opportunity.”

Illyria looked at the sky. “It need not be,” she said quietly. “There is one final thing you have to show me.”

Spike looked down at his feet, which seemed glued to the spot. He tried lifting his left foot but the muscles in his legs refused to co-operate. “Oh, now come on, Blue. We’ve been at this long enough. There’s nothin’ left.”

“There is,” replied Illyria. “Day Twelve.”